Chocolat
by Wonk
Summary: Chocolate has many powers. It can heal, twist emotions, break prejudices, and perhaps, in the oddest case, bring two people together in the oddest place. RLHG.
1. Prologue

Full summary: Chocolate has many powers. It can heal, twist emotions, break prejudices, and perhaps, in the oddest case, bring two people together in the oddest place. Based on the movie and book _Chocolat_. Is (eventually) RL/HG.

Special thanks to sazzlette who wrote "Chocolate", which, though somewhat unrelated, inspired me to write this. You have no idea how much I wanted to write a Lupin/Hermione story but couldn't think of a suitable plot.

_**Chocolat**_

By Wonk

**Prologue**

From the exterior, it rarely seemed like a magical sort of place. The rustic village was settled among the sloping hills of Snowdonia in Northern Wales, resting in a valley with tall green grass rushing up to meet the cobblestone streets and the homes' back doors. It was small, quaint, and quiet. There were no roads leading to the small town of Dihalog, nor any certain paths away; the merchants had other ways of receiving their goods, and the small lake kept the most avid fishers occupied.

From the side, maybe even from above, no one would expect that this town's heartbeat was timed by magic. But witches and wizards ran the steps of every street, while mischievous kneazles escaped from the cages of hippogriffs with smug smiles on their squashed faces, and little boys told adventures about Chinese Fireballs and wished whimsically for a racing broom they had only heard about in passing. The occasionally adventurous Muggle was the only thing that kept this town from the coveted title of being the second All-Wizarding Community in Great Britain. However, it was well known that the unsuspecting Muggles were run out after little more than a day, often upon observing that the homes – grey stone and ancient and often leaning every which-way all at once – could still be standing only by some sort of magic.

Witches wore skirts or dress robes, depending on the occasion, men wore their robes and cloaks, and the children wore clothes that were unrecognizable by the end of the day. Everyone looked somewhat alike, for there wasn't a drop of Muggle blood among them, as far back as anyone could trace. And they preferred it to stay that way, thank you very much.

It was no wonder why Hermione Granger felt somewhat out of place, stepping on to this street in this funny little town, nothing familiar to her except for the jeans and the pullover she was wearing, the cat carrier in her hand, and the heavy bag slung over her shoulder. She squinted into the midday sun, holding a hand to her brow to shade her eyes.

This would do.

For a Sunday afternoon, the streets were disconcertingly empty. In Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks would be full to overflowing, and back in her own hometown, where she lived with her parents, the shops closed at five. She had been expecting a bustling scene of domestic chaos: scraped knees, babies crying, the snap of Apparation and the tinkling of bells as doors at the shops closed and opened for busy customers. But all the doors were shut and locked, their empty windows gleaming dully in the sunlight. There were only a few children about, one levitating a foot or so above the lawn on a toy broom. A one-year-old sat nearby, staring lethargically with a toy wand stuck in his mouth, drool hanging in transparent strings from the polished wood. Their mother, wearing a skirt and blouse in pristine condition, sat on the doorstep watching them with wary eyes that shifted toward Hermione. Curious, Hermione gave her an uneasy smile. When the witch did not return it, she just walked uncomfortably on.

Did the suspicious woman think that Hermione was a Muggle? She supposed that it was possible, but if she were a Muggle, wouldn't she have acted a little more shocked about the child floating on a broom and the wand sticking haphazardly out of the younger one's lips? Maybe that's why she hadn't been yelled at and attacked as soon as she entered the town from the Apparation point. Maybe they just planned to Obliviate her later. She hadn't walked into this blind. She was Hermione Granger. She had done her research. Which was why she was not going to tell one person in this town that she was Muggleborn.

There was no denying that it was a nice, tidy town, the kind of place she supposed everyone would want to raise their children. It was spotless, timeless, and apparently, the citizens were like-minded and tight-knit. Her research hadn't told her that all shops would be closed on Sundays. That would be a rule she'd have to prepare herself for, or else break entirely. She lifted her head a bit so she looked somewhere other than the rough ground beneath her feet. She could be confident about this. She was young, intelligent, and brave. If she could help her friends confront Lord Voldemort and live, she could survive opening a business in this little town.

She passed a house elf, dressed in what looked like a potato sack and folding its head against its chest as it brushed the dust off of the stoop, and asked it, "Excuse me, could you point me to number nine Bernard Street?"

A startled squeak was the only thing she got in reply as the elf's eyes fell upon her Muggle clothing. There was a crack and the elf was gone, leaving a cloud of dust behind as if it had just vanished in some great Muggle magic trick.

"Thanks," Hermione muttered under her breath. "Suppose I'll have to find it myself…"

It wasn't difficult. A large sign announced Bernard Street's branch off of the main road, curling slightly through shops and houses, neat, tidy, and, like the high street, unpleasantly empty. Her new shop was rather close to the high street, as she had been promised, and except for its dusty window display and missing sign (she would have had to take it down, anyway, though the rusty hanging post wasn't exactly welcoming), it was quite cheery and pleasant. The rent wasn't extremely affordable, and she'd have to do without a few luxuries until she'd gotten back on her feet, but she had the confidence that her sales could make up for it.

Hermione specialized in chocolate. At the age of twenty-two, she had been laid off by the Ministry in her work supporting non-human rights ("If they needed rights," her boss had said in exasperation. "They would learn how to speak for themselves."), and had begun an independent research project on the properties of magical healing in everyday foods. Unfunded, of course.

Chocolate was by far the most promising.

Among being a rather pleasant aphrodisiac and a calming treat after a frightening Magical Attack (she had Remus Lupin to thank for the inspiration), it also proved to be quite good for anything that bothered you, and an appealing item for all – magical or Muggle. With certain things tweaked, certain things changed, it could cure colds, measles, impotence, and severe cases of the jitters. The possibilities were limitless, and it was this excitement to experiment with the unknown that brought Hermione to the point of pushing it under the noses of others. It wasn't all for her knowledge, of course, not just for her learning.

It was this excitement and this ambition that drew her to Dihalog, when, in her right mind, she probably would have never set foot inside the place. It seemed like the kind of town that would breed Malfoys by the dozens, raising narrow-minded children in stiff, stubborn tradition.

She smiled to herself as she brought out the key that had been owled to her. She was certain that they would like her. They _had_ to. No one ever disliked the woman who made them chocolate.

She had come to this town with a mission, not just for experimentation but to inspire change, and she'd be damned if her efforts proved unfruitful.


	2. Bitter Chocolate Truffles

**Chapter One**

_Bitter Chocolate Truffles _

½ cup unsalted butter - well softened  
1 large egg - well beaten  
3 ounces unsweetened chocolate  
1 tablespoon strong coffee  
1 pound confectioners' sugar - sifted  
½ cup heavy cream  
1 tablespoon vanilla extract  
½ cup chocolate threads

In a mixing bowl, whisk the butter together with the egg until evenly blended. In a double boiler over gently simmering water, combine the chocolate and the coffee and melt, stirring occasionally. In a large mixing bowl, place about 2 ½ cups of the confectioners sugar. Add the butter and egg mixture, the melted chocolate mixture, cream and vanilla. Stir well and, if necessary, add more sugar to make the mixture into a paste stiff enough to handle. Roll the paste quickly into little balls, using about two heaping teaspoons for each one. Roll the balls in the chocolate threads. Chill until firm, on a tray lined with parchment paper in a cool place, an icebox if possible.

Perfect for the bitter, the self-obsessed, and, at times, for those looking for insight into their enemies.

§§§

"Mum says she's a dark witch," a wide-eyed little girl said in a fearsome whisper as she stood on her tiptoes to peer into the display window, trying to catch a peak of what, if anything, was going on inside. "You-Know-Who was a half-blood, and Papa says that anyone who's not Pureblood's dangerous."

"My dad says the same thing," a slightly older, slightly taller boy said from beside her. "But I dunno, I've never met one before. She _looks_ nice enough."

"Do Muggles always have that kind of hair?" an older girl asked in a muddle of confusion. "It's rather frightful, isn't it?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit to herself as she moved about her shop, wand in hand, repairing tiny cracks in the walls and squinting at the corners, ridding each dark spot from its cobwebs. She was far past the days where any comments on her hair insulted her. Her burden of frizzy curls was just an unpleasant fact of life. She could do something with it if she desired, she just chose not to. Rude, wondering comments from eight-year-olds were far from insulting, especially since they were so naïve that they thought that she couldn't hear them through the open door.

"So what is she?" the slightly annoyed little girl asked, her voice a loud whisper. "A Muggle or a witch?"

"I reckon she's both," the older boy said with an overlying tone of pride in his own cleverness. "What do you bet she's Muggleborn?"

There was a tiny gasp and then silence as all three pairs of eyes glanced through the window, appraising her heritage by her looks. They all jumped, startled, when the door slammed shut in answer to their speculations. They quickly sped away, leaving a cloud of dust and the mingled scent of youth in their wake.

"Honestly," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, giving a flick of her wand. The tin lids of the paint cans flew off, revealing the vivid, candy apple red color that was to go on the walls. Another flick and the paint poured into a tray and rollers and brushes dipped themselves in it, ready to go about their business. "I just moved in and the whole town is talking about me, and no one's even come to welcome me." She tossed her wand down and picked up the thin book that she had been consulting for interior decorating tips. "Friendly people," she muttered.

Crookshanks only mewed a reply, gazing forlornly at her bag. He knew that in there she kept her clothing (the perfect bedding), her balls of yarn for knitting (the perfect toys), and her seemingly limitless supply of chocolate and cooking ingredients (the perfect treat when her back was turned). He waited silently until his owner looked thoroughly enveloped in her instructional booklet, furrowed brow and all, and slunk to the bag, sniffing it tentatively. A swipe of the paw pulled the drawstring toward him and he gripped it in his teeth, wriggling backwards.

"I thought you were intelligent," Hermione said with a small smile, flipping a page in her book and not even looking up. "Crooks, if you want anything, you're going to have to try harder than that."

Releasing the string, the cat gave a disgruntled growl and lumbered away from her, nudging open the back door. Hermione heard him thumping loudly up the stairs and the noisy squeak of springs as he jumped onto her bed and settled there.

She returned to focusing intently on decorating tips, gnawing on her lower lip as she glanced over the diagrams on the page. It suggested art prints or exotic wall hangings to add warmth and friendliness to the atmosphere. She had neither.

She did, however, have photographs. She could charm them to be bright neon colors so they added a touch of so-called "retro style" to her shop. Hopefully the customers, if she ever had any, wouldn't notice that in several was a bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl that bore a great resemblance to the shop owner.

The paint dried quickly, and the black trim gave the room a crisp, sophisticated edge. The counters were of black marble and would be the perfect display. The upstairs was in severe need of a woman's touch, but Hermione knew that she couldn't do it on her own. All of her ideas came from her books, but she didn't have one that included decorating bedroom spaces. Crookshanks probably preferred it the way it was, anyway.

Next, she dug out the pictures that she had stored in an envelope inside of her bottomless sack. The subjects were various and many: Hermione, Harry, and Ron on their last day at Hogwarts, waving merrily; Grawp staring dumbly at the camera; Hermione holding her ginger cat during her sixth year, and one of Remus Lupin with one arm slung over Harry's shoulders and one over Hermione's, with Ron on the floor trying to keep a hold on his flittery owl, taken a few months after Voldemort's defeat.

She smiled at the last photo fondly and set it apart from the others. As the other photos mutated into a rainbow of bright color and applied themselves to the wall, trying to pass themselves off as Modern Art (Grawp did not seem happy with having turned a violent shade of pink), the one with Harry, Ron, and Lupin settled, unadulterated, by Hermione's cash register.

There. The pictures clashed somewhat with the atmosphere, but she was sure that she could come up with something to replace them later. In the mean time, she had chocolate to make.

§

A hesitant knock roused Hermione from her half-asleep state as she sat, eyes closed, behind the register. The shop smelled of cinnamon, ginger, and cocoa, and the warm smells had coaxed her into a state of semi-unconsciousness. Her head jerked up and her eyes snapped open, and she remembered that she had opened the door to let the smell of chocolate waft out, hoping to beckon some potential customers inside.

She hadn't slept very well the night before (Crookshanks hadn't been too keen on the idea of sharing the bed and insisted on nesting in her hair until she gave up and slept on the couch), and was quite certain that she wouldn't attract anyone by sitting, eyes closed and motionless, in the corner.

"The door's open," Hermione called, pausing to clear her throat and climbing to her feet. She rounded the counter. "You're more than welcome to come in."

A young woman stood still in the doorway and came gradually into view as Hermione approached. She was dressed in black; a full-sleeved, knee-length dress, nylons, and high-heeled shoes all in clean, crisp black. Blond, curly hair was pulled tightly back from her round face, and her eyes were a shy, unobtrusive shade of blue. She was a bit chubby, and, if she were a little girl, Hermione was sure that she would have been a perfect stand-in for a cherub.

"Hello," Hermione said brightly, extending her hand forward in an offer to shake.

"Hello," the woman murmurred, staring at Hermione's hand as if she wasn't sure what to do with it. She shook her head like she was clearing away a stupor. "Oh…um…" She unsnapped her black purse open and pulled forth several crumpled pieces of paper. "Greetings, Miss…Granger. My name is Edyth," she said, eyes scanning the paper and speaking brokenly, as if she was reading aloud (which was, in all actuality, very likely). "I have been sent by the town council to officially welcome you and your dependents to Dihalog." She took a deep breath before spluttering on. "We on the council would like to present you with our town's mission statement, which I will now read aloud."

More rustling and another deep breath. "'We, as the community of Dihalog, have made it our mission to promote sound, unoffending, and wholesome lifestyles for both witches and wizards alike. We promote and always will promote cleanliness of health, habit, line, and mind. We will continue to protect the standards and the well being of this community and its citizens for as long as it still stands, and will not tolerate those who detract from the wholeness of our town or threaten our goals. We will continue to uphold our standards of living and raise thoughtful citizens who will carry on their family names with pride.' Here you go." She placed the copy of the so-called "mission statement" in Hermione's still outstretched, but only slightly, hand. Edyth now appeared a bit frazzled, as if, now that her lines weren't written down, she didn't know what to say. She looked up expectantly at Hermione, who was still processing what the short speech was really saying.

After a moment, Hermione took it upon herself to speak. "Would you like to come in? I'm sure that you would be able to find something that you like."

"Oh." Edyth glanced past her, her blue eyes gazing over the chocolate covered jellies and the Nipples of Venus, the chocolate caramels and truffles. They all glittered in shiny cellophane wrappers, reflecting the cheery sunlight and glittering like sweet diamonds. "Well," she said with a tiny smile. "I suppose."

Hermione stepped back and the woman followed, her heels clicking gracefully on the tile floor and echoing through the room.

"Goodness," she said in muted awe. "This is a lot of chocolate."

"I know," answered Hermione, humorlessly. "I think I overdid it a bit. It took me three days."

"You did it by yourself?" Edyth asked, even more amazed.

"Yes, with a little help from my books." She gestured toward the stools that lined the counter before the register. "Would you like to sit down?"

"All…all right." Looking as though she was trying very hard not to enjoy herself, she climbed onto the stool and folded her hands in her lap.

"What would you like?" Hermione asked, rounding the other side.

"Nothing," Edyth said, shaking her head. "I'm on a diet."

Hermione frowned. "Nonsense, diets are only for people who want to be unhappier with who they are."

Edyth opened her mouth to protest again, but Hermione interrupted.

"It's my treat. Now, what would you like?"

For a moment, the young woman turned very red as if she was fighting a battle within herself and ready to burst into a ball of flame. Finally, she said, "Do you have any biscuits?"

Hermione smiled. "Of course. They're a staple of human living." She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a small plate that held two chocolate chip biscuits.

Looking a bit guilty, Edyth bit into the first one. Her face lit up. "These are fantastic."

Hermione couldn't help but blush a bit. "My mother's are better."

Edyth shook her head, finishing it off, and saw the picture that sat near the cash register.

"Who are these people?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh, well," Hermione pointed at her own image, who was gazing at the two companions at her side adoringly. "That's me…about five years ago, with my friends Ron, Harry, and-"

"Is that Remus Lupin?" The woman certainly enjoyed asking questions. But her tone was no longer curious but instead shocked, as if she had just received the news of a horrible death in the family.

"You know Remus?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows raised. The fact that Edyth was talking to the best friend of Harry Potter, the Wonder Boy, didn't seem to phase her, but the fact that the person she was talking to was standing beside Remus in the picture apparently did.

"Yes…I mean no…I mean…" She paused and bit down hard on her lower lip. "Isn't he a werewolf?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And you're friends with him?"

"Yes, but-"

"I must go," Edyth said, suddenly on her feet with her purse in her hand. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"But-"

"Have a good day, Miss Granger." She turned on her heels and exited the store so quickly that the door followed and closed shut behind her, sending a draft of air into Hermione's confused face.

Hermione frowned angrily at the uneaten biscuit. A mutter and a wave of her wand later and both it and the plate were gone.

It was then that she noticed that the mission statement was splayed under her left hand. With gritted teeth, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the bin with the other rubbish.

§§§

A/N: I realize that Hermione seems a bit OOC, but I assure you that her character this far in the story is intentional, and will break before long. And, yes, Remus will show up eventually :).

Also, I'm leaving for Europe tonight and won't be back until September 8th, but hopefully when I come back I'll have plenty of material to post after being stuck on a plane for fourteen hours with nothing to do but stare at the seat in front of me.

Thanks to: CassandraTheEvil, Bree Mcgregor, Akasha Ravensong, xPhoenixx, emikae, aPPle-FrrEAk (Wow, haven't heard from you in a while. Hope you're doing well), Lady Karou (Yes, it's one of mine, too. Obviously), Kailin, Dragon Blade5, wackoramaco87 (yes, the end of the book was kind of sad. At least its ending was left open (probably for a sequel or something, though I doubt she'll ever write one), Kaliae (too late, I've already been there :)), and hand3.

See you all in a few weeks!


	3. Hot Chocolate

**Chapter Two**

_Hot Chocolate_

_6 tablespoons of unsweetened cocoa  
6 tablespoons of sugar  
Pinch of salt  
2 1/2 cups of milk  
2 1/2 cups of light cream  
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla  
Pinch of cinnamon powder  
Whipped cream  
Orange zest_

_Mix cocoa, salt, and sugar. Add milk. Heat to dissolve. Add light cream, cinnamon, vanilla. Heat to just under boiling. Mix very well and pour into warm mug. Top with whipped cream, cocoa powder, and fine orange zest._

_Makes an effective weapon due to shock and burns caused by boiling chocolate. Is also a nice way to calm down after a trying day._

__

* * *

No one had come into her shop all day. Oh, a few people almost had; had looked longingly at the window display (which currently housed chocolate-covered cashews and peanuts scattered amongst dipped strawberries), had almost stepped inside, but thought twice about it and continued onward. Hermione forced a smile at them through the glass, but they only looked more frightened and practically ran out of view. One would think her lip curled up to display fangs. 

She was annoyed and bored. She had brought a book downstairs; she was prepared to keep herself occupied. Hopefully she could sell something before the strawberries spoiled. 

Night was falling slowly. It was a dusky sunset, a mixture of neon colors darkening into the light navy of the star-dotted sky, and the colors were just visible above the sloping rooftops. Most of the shops had closed by now, except for the small café down the street where she had been begrudgingly served dinner, and except for hers. She had promised herself that she wouldn't close until a customer set foot inside her shop, but her conviction ebbed away as the sun fell and the soft light of candles illuminated the windows of her neighbors' houses. 

The book was quite interesting, as most books usually were, and Hermione was so ensnared in its words that she barely noticed the click of boots on tile as two highly polished ones stepped carefully onto her floor, carrying a gentle breeze with them. 

The breeze and the boots weren't alone, of course. 

They were followed by a man of about forty: tall, but not extremely, with a wide, imposing figure and unremarkable straight, short hair that grew in short sideburns below his temples. His face was clean-shaven, but a dark shadow around his mouth told that his facial hair grew very quickly. His eyes were of an indistinct color, unthreatening until they turned upon Hermione. 

"Hello," she said, feeling choked and finding herself unable to smile. "May I help you?" 

"Oh." His voice was of a medium pitch, weak, difficult to hear across a room. He cleared his throat with his fist, glittering with an unnaturally shiny and almost disturbing amount of rings, to his mouth and spoke again, his voice suddenly at a false low pitch. "No. I just came to look." 

"Oh," Hermione answered weakly, her thumb searching for her lost spot in her book. She mentally berated it for distracting her from her job. "All right. Don't hesitate to ask any questions." 

He nodded his reply and turned around to bend over, examining her carefully assembled displays. Book forgotten, Hermione settled on watching him, the paperback hanging limply from her hand. The few people that had come in the days before had only glanced over her treats before making a hasty exit, looking almost guilty. No one had ever seemed that interested. 

"You do fine work," the man said as if his praises were worth far more than gold, so she better appreciate them if she knew what was good for her. The man hummed gently and bent so close that if someone were to push him over, he would have fallen directly into the display. "Very fine, indeed." 

"Thank you, sir," she answered carefully. "But, if anything, I'd prefer to be appreciated for their taste, not their looks. Would you like to try one?" 

He straightened, his nostrils flaring, and she heard his back crack. He didn't flinch, however. 

_Probably the pole up his arse sliding back into place_, she thought as he opened his eyes widely, searching for something to say. _Bad Hermione, you shouldn't think about potential customers that way._

"Muggle recipes?" he asked, his manner of speaking as stiff as his back. 

"Mostly, though I've added magic-inspired touches to some." She made a gesture at the cellophane-wrapped sweets. "Have a try." 

"I couldn't," he said, shaking his head. "I promised myself that I wouldn't waste my money." 

Hermione felt her face redden, but tried to keep her expression calm and free from traces of irritation. If there was one thing she had managed to learn over the past few years, it was how to keep her tongue under control. She had always criticized Ron and Harry for having little constraint over their anger, but she was truly the same as them, if not worse. She just took it out on the correct people at the correct times and used it to her advantage. It was a gift, being a woman. Somehow, you could always make the man apologize, even if it wasn't his fault. This lesson was one of the few benefits from her several months wasted dating Ron. 

However, this man didn't seem like the type to apologize, and Hermione kept her quickly flaring anger at his implications under control. 

"It would be my treat," she said coolly, getting up from her stool. Her trainers squeaked across the floor, the sound of rubber on tile causing the irksome man to raise a faint eyebrow. 

"No, thank you." 

Feeling all the more offended for him not having offered her a reason for withholding, she felt the need to push on. 

"Really. It's impossibly to fully grasp art until you can taste its meaning. I insist that you try something." 

"No." The answer was simple, but stiff, unrelenting, callous, and as stinging as a string of insults. The look on his face was like how it would probably be if Hermione had asked him to exchange his soul for three knuts. 

"All right," Hermione answered quietly, hoping he couldn't hear the angry tremor in her voice. "Whatever you wish." She sat back down, sniffing as she picked up her book, ready to ignore him. 

"Look," he said before she could turn to her wished-for page. His tone wasn't apologetic, but at least promised an explanation. She could hear the clicking of his boots as he approached the counter, but didn't look up. "Perhaps I should properly introduce myself. My name is Albert Cincetti, and I am the chairman of the town council." 

She finally lifted her face and put her book down. Glaring steadily at him in what she hoped was a challenging way, she replied, "I'm not surprised." 

He ignored her comment. "I suppose you could say that if Dihalog had a mayor, that would be me." He laughed gently to himself, as if he found himself amusing. Hermione did not, however, which seemed to fluster him. "And I feel that it is my duty to…what would one say…" He made a hand gesture that was almost obscene for all its flourishes. "…observe the new businesses in town. Especially those that are as talked about as this one." 

"Talked about?" Hermione posed mildly, adding a lie for good measure: "I wasn't aware." 

"Yes." Cincetti folded his hands behind his back and straightened his spine, apparently adamant in superimposing his greater height over her. "It seems you have made yourself inadvertently popular." He sniffed the air, his wide nose flaring, it seemed, all the way from nostrils to bridge. 

"From my sales, it wouldn't appear that way," she answered, her politeness quickly running out. Her hands were grasping the countertop almost painfully. 

"Well, of course. Just because you are popular doesn't mean you are well-liked." He looked as thought he was fending off a smile. 

Hermione didn't quite know how to reply to this. 

"Miss Granger," he said. She started, surprised that he knew her name. "Are you aware that you are renting from me?" 

"What?" she spat out. "No. I'm renting from Mrs.-" 

"DuChec, who is an employee of mine. When one owns as much property as I do, one finds it difficult to take care of it all by oneself, so one must hire others to manage sections for one." 

"One must also learn that one's talking to a full-grown, highly educated witch and not a two-year-old." 

"You should be careful, Miss Granger," he said slowly, stepping away from the counter, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Step out of line just once, and I will know. We don't take kindly to Mudbloods here." 

Without a word, not even a sign of leaving, he turned and quickly exited the building, the bell tinkling cheerfully after him. 

"Thanks, cowboy," Hermione said through gritted teeth as he disappeared from the view of the window. Knowing that throwing something through the glass wouldn't solve any of her problems, she slammed the door shut, locked it, and stomped up the stairs, itching to take her anger out on an object that was much more forgiving. 

* * *

"You called?" Remus Lupin's face held a grim, but somewhat curious, expression as his head bounced slightly in the flames of Hermione's fireplace. The mantle was a bit dusty, the logs old and coated in ash, and the wall paper in the room was fading slightly while the soft carpet was wearing away with each step. He either didn't notice the somewhat "well-loved" (as the advert had put it) condition of Hermione's room or just didn't think anything of it. 

He did, however, see the less than pleased look on her face as she sat in the moldy armchair before the fireplace, legs crossed, arms folded, her right foot wiggling anxiously to a beat only in her head. Crookshanks laid at her feet, stretched out in front of the fire, tail twitching and purring contentedly and his gold eyes glowing. 

Silence. 

"Let me guess…my fault?" He frowned, but his expressive, chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with amusement. 

"No," Hermione sighed, slouching lower in her chair. "Well, sort of. If you want to take responsibility for my annoyance, you're more than welcome to it." 

"No thanks." More silence, and Hermione could hear something that sounded like the Wizarding Wireless in the background, followed by Harry's agitated grumbling and a squeal from a young Harry-Ginny hybrid that went by the name of Violet the Red-Headed Horror. 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Potters over?" 

"Not for long," Remus answered with a bit of a hopeful smile. "It's the one good thing about Ginny being pregnant. They might be having another one, but at least she gets tired easily." 

"Remus!' 

"I love Ginny," he said in his defense. "But their child can only eat so much before I run out of food and she starts gnawing on the furniture." 

"Ah, and it's new, too. Pity." 

"You didn't owl me to talk about furniture," Remus said, his eyebrows raised quizzically. "Is something wrong?" He knew that the answer was obvious but asked anyway, letting her have the comforting belief that her emotions were still somewhat of a mystery to him. Truth was, after knowing her for ten years, he could read her like a children's book. Her eyes were aflame, she was squirming in irritation, and her frizzy hair practically crackled in frustration. When she didn't answer, he said, "You look nice." 

She softened slightly. But only slightly. "The people are horrible here," she said at last, her voice choked. "I haven't sold a single thing the three days I've been open. And the people that have been in have treated me horribly." 

"But you suspected that that might happen," Remus answered. "And you're not advertising that you're Muggleborn, are you?" 

"No," Hermione replied, trying to nudge her trainers underneath her chair. "Not at all. But everyone seems to know anyway." 

"Then you'll just have to make the best of it," Remus said as Violet's high-pitched scream echoed through Hermione's sitting room, thankfully muffled. She flinched and Remus sighed. 

"Make the best of it?" Hermione replied in disbelief. She heard her voice rising, but didn't care. "_You're_ the one that suggested this bloody town!" 

"You said that you wanted a small, mostly magical town," Remus answered, the corners of his mouth falling, calm, as always. "You knew what it was like. It was only a suggestion." 

She slouched ever lower, feeling herself fall into an immature pout. 

"You're free to leave, if you want. My door is always open if you need a place to stay." He sounded strained, somehow. He looked healthier; he had filled out his thin frame a bit, the circles under his eyes were gone, and his smile and gaze remained brilliant. But he was tired, and probably quite annoyed. Remus loved Harry's small (growing) family, but not when they stayed for extended periods of time. She could almost hear him want to say, "If you can keep the Potters away." 

"No," Hermione sighed. "I can handle this." Her eyebrows furrowed determinedly. "I've never lost before. No time to start now." 

"Hermione…" 

"What?" 

"Just be careful," he sighed, the flames ruffling his hair. "And don't mention that you know me, unless you want to make things worse. Good night." 

His head popped out of the flames and the fire died, leaving empty space where his head had been and plunging the room into cold darkness. 

* * *

Thanks to: Akasha Ravensong, apple-frreak (I did, thanks!), The Lady Elizibeth (I'm working on it. It's coming out, but very, very slowly), Kailin, Dragon Blade5, mac1, Kneazle (Go ahead, you are more than welcome to write a story based on Chocolat. I don't own the idea (heck knows I've written the same spin-offs as others)), wackoramaco87 (Yup, it works. Though I haven't tried them...very tempted to, though. But I had enough chocolate on my trip and I'm not in the mood to make it, especially since it won't nearly be as good), Senoritatito, Dracula5555 (yes...fluff...will get there, just don't quite know when), and Rylee Smith (oh, you have to!). 

Obviously...I'm back now. Will hopefully be updating other stories soon. Classes have started again, but my schedules not exactly difficult, so I should have plenty of time to write.

FF won't let me use symbols to separate parts of the chapters anymore, so excuse the ugly horizontal lines. It's not my fault.


	4. Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake

A/N: My apologies for the long delay in posting this chapter. Writer's block is a demanding master (and so are my classes).

**Chapter Three**

_Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake _

1 cup boiling water  
1/2 cup cocoa, firmly packed  
2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour  
2 teaspoons baking soda  
1/4 teaspoon salt  
1 cup mayonnaise  
1-1/4 cups sugar  
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350F, and grease and flour two 8-inch cake pans. In a small bowl, pour the boiling water over the cocoa, and stir until smooth. Set aside. Sift together the flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the mayonnaise and sugar at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the vanilla and cocoa mixture, beating until incorporated. With mixer at low speed, gradually add the flour mixture, beating just until batter is combined. Pour batter into prepared pans, and bake 25 to 30 minutes or until a cake tester inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes; remove from pans to wire racks. Allow to cool completely before frosting.

For those with stranger, or let's just call it more adventurous, tastes.

§§§

The trainers were gone, and Hermione had dug out her old school robes from her bag. There were a bit short, and no longer fit correctly in the bust and hips, but they would do. If she didn't fit in, at least she no longer stood out. With her unmanageable hair tied back and her boots securely fastened, and the picture of Remus in a place no longer visible to customers, as he had suggested, Hermione was quite confident that she could damn near pass for a Pureblood. Halfblood, in the least.

She decided to open late the next morning. Well, it wasn't as much a decision as it was the only option. She had overslept and woke up at eleven, instead of her scheduled seven, and only awoke when Crookshanks came in and left a gift of a dead vole at the end of her bed. For not being incredibly old, in part-Kneazle years, anyway, the cat was becoming increasingly senile by the day. When he started thinking that dead voles were a nice way to begin his owner's day, she didn't know.

After a warm shower (that threatened to put her back to sleep standing up), she dressed slowly and walked down the stairs with Crookshanks at her heels, mewing in question to whether she enjoyed her present.

She wasn'texpecting to see anyone waiting for her to open; in fact, if she'd been told that anyone was waiting for her to unlock the door, she would have questioned his sanity. So when she saw a tiny, burlap covered back sitting on her stoop, she considered just going upstairs and going back to bed. She was obviously still asleep, anyway; she was dreaming.

Crossing the cold floor and shivering slightly, she undid the deadbolts and opened the door, switching the sign to read as "open". The bell tinkled and the child – no, it wasn't a child – jumped up from the step with a gasp. It had its burlap sack clothing pulled over its head, but from the green, dusty feet, Hermione knew that it couldn't be anything but a house elf.

"Hello," Hermione said gently, stepping backward through the door and holding it open for the disguised creature.

The elf just stood there, refusing to remove its head covering and cowering slightly below her. There were bumps in the burlap where its ears and nose were, and slack where its breath pulled and pushed the rough fabric. Its feet were gigantic and she could just see its long fingers grasping at the bottom of what was most likely a potato sack, holding on to its cover for dear life.

"Would you like to come in?" Hermione asked, unable to wipe the confusion from her face. The sack nodded and shuffled through the door. She closed the door behind it, and only when it had heard the click did the elf remove its disguise.

It was a male, with the typical bat-like ears and bulbous eyes, thrown in with a round nose for good measure. He was the shade of a new tomato, and his loincloth rivaled the late Kreacher's skimpiness. Hermione hoped the potato sack was part of his daily ware.

"May I help you?" she asked with raised eyebrows, her voice catching slightly.

The elf looked around at the displays with wide, watery eyes and nodded. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and craggy, as if he was fighting off a cold or suffered from a lifetime smoker's lungs.

"Bern needs chocolate for his mistress," he said, feet shuffling nervously.

"You have a large selection to choose from," she answered, gesturing uneasily toward the counters. "Is there anything particular that she likes?"

"Honeydukes," the elf answered. "But Bern can't go into Honeydukes, and mistress does not know. Mistress wants chocolate."

His face was frozen in a grimace, and Hermione suddenly noticed that his mouth barely moved when he talked. He seemed to blink infrequently, almost once per minute, if at all.

"You can't go to Honeydukes? But isn't there one in Mold?"

"Bern stole," the elf said gravely, his expression still frozen. "Bern not allowed at Honeydukes."

"Oh," Hermione said, drawing the syllable out. "All…right. Well, I appreciate your honesty. Does she like orange chocolate?"

"Yes, mistress likes orange chocolate," the elf said, shuffling toward Hermione who was holding out a cellophane wrapped bag. The elf grabbed it quickly, leaving a galleon where the chocolate had been, stuffed it under his burlap and tucked it in his arm, and dashed out the door.

Hermione walked back to the counter and put the galleon in an envelope beneath the register. Her first sale: from a crazed house elf who talked like Clint Eastwood.

Well, a sale was a sale. It wasn't her job to pass judgment, there seemed to be enough people who claimed that in this town.

§

She decided to take the liberty of closing for lunch (to celebrate her first sale) and walked to the other side of town, her feet beginning to smart in the too-tight boots, hoping against probability that tongue-wagging was yet to travel that far.

She kept her hat, which by now must have been painfully out of fashion (she never did quite follow style) on, making sure that it stayed secure over her difficult hair.

The day was cool and crisp, but unusually warm for an October day. The trees that lined the street had burst into fiery shades of red and proud sheens of gold and bronze. Pumpkins, ready to be sacrificed to the coming Halloween, grew tall and fat in the gardens surrounding the houses, and the air smelt faintly of fresh soil and ginger. Silver scarf wrapped around her neck (a hand-knitted gift from her perpetually busy mother, given last Christmas), she walked slowly, intent on committing each pleasant, unbiased, careless step to memory.

Hermione smiled good-naturedly at the cashier as she got in to the queue behind an old woman who smelled like Crookshanks after he had been wallowing in the rain. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, just earthy and unusual, and perhaps faintly perturbing.

People didn't seem to recognize her here, which was a good sign. She found an empty table in the busy café – a wave of her wand cleared any leftover crumbs – and began her lunch. The egg mayonnaise and cress sandwich was tasty – they had even added pickles, unusually, which Hermione thought had only been her odd habit – the butterbeer was cold and frothy, and the éclair that she had chosen for dessert was delicious (not as good as her own, but quite good nonetheless).

Glancing through the book she had brought with her and flipping to the ninth chapter, she heard a small cough that was meant, obviously, to grab one's attention. She ignored it, thinking it was meant for someone else. Then she heard it again.

Hermione looked up, squinting into the bright afternoon sun, which shone directly above the crown of the head of the cough's owner. It was a girl of about fourteen with long, straight, brown hair, thick eyebrows, and a surprisingly pleasant expression on her face. She smiled politely at Hermione, revealing a bit of an overbite.

"Hello," she said, her voice sweet but lacking the smooth, thick, false tone that most people in the town masked their feelings with. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Hermione looked around, noticing the obviously vacant tables nearby. Turning back to the girl, who had an endearingly hopeful expression on her face, she couldn't help but comply.

"Go ahead," she answered with a slight nod, scooting up in her chair a bit to bring an end to her slouching. Carefully picking up one last corner of her sandwich, she turned a page in her book but couldn't focus; the girl was chomping absently on the straw of her lemonade, staring at Hermione as though she had an arm growing out of the middle of her forehead.

"Er…" Hermione articulated, setting her book aside with an inward sigh. "Do you want something?"

"You're the new lady, aren't you?" the girl asked. "The one that owns the sweet shop?"

"It's a chocolate shop, specifically, but yes," Hermione answered, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. "You've heard of me?" she added boldly.

"From loads of people." She continued to gnaw on the plastic. If it had been metal, she would have drawn sparks. She never seemed to blink…her eyes held the same blank, unflinching expression that she had greeted her with a few moments before. "They don't seem to like you very much."

The atmosphere suddenly dampened, as if those fateful words had drown the dreary gloom from Hermione's shop so it hovered above their table, pulsing in perverse pleasure at the uncomfortable situation. She half-expected rain to come pouring down from the clear blue canvas of the sky.

She couldn't find words, so she shrugged mutely.

"You seem nice to me," the girl said cheerily. Fork in hand, she stabbed her sandwich mercilessly, as if it were an animal that she was torturing to death, and wedge a corner away from its former whole. What normal person ate a cold sandwich with a fork? "I can't find anything wrong with you, anyway."

Hermione couldn't quite take this as a compliment. She reminded her of Luna Lovegood, and how Harry had described that it might have been better to have no one believe him than have Luna full-heartedly and loudly support his cause. Likewise, Hermione wasn't quite sure that earning this girl's trust could gain her any popularity points.

"I like chocolate," the girl said wonderingly.

Hermione refrained from sighing and answered half-heartedly, "You should stop by my shop."

"Oh, maybe." She went back to chewing. "But I don't want to get fat."

Hermione finally let out the held-in sigh, but found that she had nothing left to say. She could just finish her sandwich and hurry back home…maybe take a stroll outside of town to kill time…

"Are you married?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you married?" the girl asked again, the pitch a perfect match with her previous, identical question, like she had recorded it and played it again. Hermione stared at her incredulously, trying to pull a curl from her line of sight.

"No, I'm not."

She looked surprised. "Really? How old are you?"

"Twenty-four." Twenty-three, whatever. Not a big difference.

"Weird, my mother got married at seventeen."

"Did she," Hermione replied blandly, pushing the remaining crumbs around her plate with the edge of her finger. "That's not too unusual. My best friend's parents got married when they were just out of school. Had him when they were nineteen."

"Why aren't you married?" she asked unblinkingly. The awkward bluntness of her question made Hermione's heart thud uneasily.

She couldn't believe she was about to spill her heart to a complete stranger, so she decided against it. "Because I choose not to be."

"You must get rather lonely." The girl shrugged vaguely. "I want to get married when I'm seventeen."

Hermione's ears were growing incredibly warm and, probably, quite red. But she called on her patience, begging it to stay. The attention of the other people in the café drew prickles on her neck. "How old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen next month."

"Do you have anyone to marry?"

"Yes," the girl sniffed. "Do you?"

Hermione frowned, clanging her spoon noisily against the side of the teacup, wishing that it would break and the shards would pierce her brain and perhaps allow her a painless death. "No."

"Really?" she said, irritatingly amazed. "Interesting. Not even someone you're interested in?"

"No," Hermione set her plate and teacup on the tray and swept the crumbled remains of her lunch off the table. "I think I'm going to go now."

"Okay," she answered, apparently unfazed. "Maybe I'll stop by your shop sometime, if my mum lets me."

Hermione forced a smile and spit out through gritted teeth, "Please do."

This was going too far. First she was being criticized for being Muggleborn, then friends with Remus, and _now_, now she had a fifteen-year-old tagalong that asked intrusive questions bordering on the extent of "Do you have a fulfilling sex life?" – which, Hermione thought, hadn't existed since she began breathing over twenty-three years ago. She had come close on a few occasions, but she was an icy, if not bitter, and selective virgin. And quite proud of it, despite the face that it had become so bloody popular to not be one.

Really, marriage was the last thing on her mind. It wasn't as if she was hiding her seven illegitimate children in the attic; she had no reason to be married.

Good Merlin, Muggle or magic, Hermione had a hard time fitting in anywhere.

Unfortunately, the girl kept true to her word and floated into her shop shop two days later, paying her respects as Hermione's second and, currently, sole customer, smelling of lavender and with her head most likely filled with it, also. She now insisted that her name was Annette (Hermione could have sworn that it was Helen, earlier) and that she was in the state of mind that hungered for a chocolate croissant.

"He's cute," Annette commented as Hermione, horrified, found her nibbling on the croissant and rifling through a drawer of her personal belongings after she came back from the bathroom. "Why don't you marry him?"

She held up the picture of Hermione and her two best friends, who all looked slightly confused, accompanied by a cheerful-looking Remus.

"He's married," Hermione commented. "Please get out of my things, it's not polite."

"Which one?" Annette asked, turning the picture back to her own eyes and staring down at it, the stringy brown hair forming a tattered curtain around her frame. "The older one behind you?"

"No, the one with the black hair."

"Oh, I was talking about the other one."

"The red head?"

"No," she insisted, now sounding faintly annoyed. "The other one."

Hermione almost answered 'Remus?" but caught herself. "Oh," she said instead. "That one. You think he's cute?"

"Definitely. Nice eyes. Do you talk to him at all?"

"Sometimes."

"You should marry him." Annette absently tucked the picture back in the drawer, failed to close it, grabbed the last bit of her chocolate croissant, and left, leaving Hermione to stare after her with a mix of disdain, sadness, and disgust.

"Yes, I'm going to marry a werewolf. God knows that that would make everything easier," Hermione muttered, slamming the drawer shut with a heavy _thud_. "I suppose I _will_ be lonely for the rest of my life, thank you very much."

Crossing her arms and staring furiously across the shop, a breeze crept in and swept the door closed with a jangle of the bell, carrying curiosity on its breath and wonder in its whisper.

§§§

Thanks to: Dragon Blade5, Kailin, Kaliae, apple-frreak, TrinityDD, Blatant Discontent, Dracula5555, wackoramaco87, Rylee Smith, trevor-bruttenholm, acdecnerd, xPhoenixx, M'cha Araem, s.s.harry, Fou Fou, RandomReviewer, rainbow fuzzlez, and Pincoffin for reviewing.


	5. Chocolate Rum Biscuits

**Chapter Four**

_Chocolate Rum Biscuits _

3 cups all-purpose flour  
1 1/2 cups unsweetened baking cocoa  
1 tablespoon baking powder  
1/2 teaspoon salt  
1 1/2 cups butter, softened  
2 cups granulated sugar  
2 tablespoons dark rum  
2 large eggs

In a bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt. In another bowl, with an electric mixer, beat together butter and sugar until it is light and fluffy; beat in rum. Beat in eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in flour mixture and mix just until dough is blended well. Form scant 1/4-cup measures of dough into balls and arrange about 3 inches apart on non-stick baking sheets. Bake cookies in middle of oven at 325° F (160° C) until tops begin to crack (about 15 minutes), and transfer to wire racks to cool. Perfect for old friends and those with more…mature…tastes.

§

_"There never comes a point where there is nothing left to learn, whether you are done with your formal education or not. There will always be trials, tests, and tribulations; labyrinths that you must work your way through in order to live a fulfilling life. For the chase is much more than half the fun, and when you reach the goal, it is all the more beautiful."_

Hermione's speech at the Leaving Feast for the seventh years had been a mixture of sadness and hope, trying in vain to console those that had lost the ones they loved, and also trying to bring an offering of hope in the future, even where it seemed that there would be none. Running the words through her mind, over and over again, Hermione couldn't help but think about how naïve she was. She was right, yes. She was half-right, that is. Life was one long series of trials, tests, and tribulations, not a splattering of them with a few good things thrown in for good measure. While her hardships in the past few years were uncountable, she could count the positive things that had happened to her on her fingers and toes, with a number of them left over to spare.

Of course, even if she had had the experience that she had now, she didn't think that the heartening words "And some of you may never live up to your full potential and wander aimlessly through life, trying to make ends meet while working an unfulfilling job and trying in vain to make yourself, and others, happy" would go over well as a whole among the crowd. It would have been the truth, though. Personally, anyway.

Business, if possible, had hit an all-time low. The elf was yet to return, and Annette would only stop by her shop to look in the window with her large, glazed-over eyes, only to walk on again with a slower step. If things continued in this way, she would be out of business before the end of this month, and her spirit may as well be permanently crushed. Nothing smelled ranker than the bitter stench of failure, especially when one's face was rubbed thoroughly into it.

And it was for a mixture of these reasons, and perhaps a few others, that she found herself standing on the doorstep of number 12 Grimmauld Place in nothing but her slippers and dressing gown at one o'clock in the morning. There was a chill in the air that tugged mercilessly at the hairs on the back of her neck as she raised her arm to rap her knuckles on the door. She wished Remus would have thought to mount a knocker; the contact with the heavy wood stung. Perhaps she could persuade him to install a doorbell.

She waited, and no one came. She hugged her robe closer to herself, teeth grinding (a nasty habit her parents had tried to break her of, but had ultimately failed), and knocked again.

The windows were dark and curtained, and she was about to turn around and leave until she heard heavy footsteps in the hall. She stood, erect and expectant, as the door creaked inward and a large nose paired with a pair of obsidian eyes peered out of the dark space. Pale skin glowed a slight yellow in the porch light that leaked into their lawn from the neighboring houses.

"Miss Granger," Severus Snape said mildly, moving the door ever so slightly inward, as though he wasn't quite prepared to let her inside. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Severus," she answered coolly, pressing her palm against the cool wood of the door. "I'm looking for Remus."

"I had thought that that was a given," he replied. Finally seeming to notice the despondent expression on her face, he let out a bored sigh. "All right, fine. Come in."

Hermione didn't budge. "Is he home?"

He let out another sigh and leaned against the doorframe, his lank hair framing his face, his skin an unflattering shade of porch-light-yellow. "Usually, Miss Granger, when one is invited inside, one usually comes in and doesn't leave the inviter standing in the doorway, freezing his bollocks off."

"I just asked a simple question," she shot back smartly.

"I honestly have no answer; I just got here myself," he replied. He opened the door wider. "Come in and find him yourself. I'm not about to give you a tour."

She finally gave in and pushed past him, saying, "Please, Professor, refrain from referencing your bollocks in casual conversation. Actually, refrain from referencing them at all."

"It's just an expression," he answered darkly, surpassing her and beginning to stomp loudly up the stairs. "And I would appreciate it if you kept quiet. I'm trying to work."

"I'm sure," she replied. "Thanks for your help."

He shot her a dark look before stomping loudly up the remaining steps and entering the library, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Hermione sighed before tentatively calling Remus's name. The kitchen was empty, its dark windows gleaming in the moonlight. It was with a start that she thought that it might be a full moon, but, with a glance through the glass, she confirmed that it was waning to a sliver. The full moon wouldn't come for quite some time, yet.

The fireplace in the living room was cold, and his bedroom was empty. The large, ancient bed that he usually slept in was neatly made, its crisp folds and wrinkle-free surface provided testament that a house elf had been present. A quick glance in the other rooms (which, as Remus had promised, were now dust-free with new furniture, though some of the chair legs were scuffed with Violet's kick marks) proved that they were devoid of the werewolf's presence.

She felt a bit odd scuffling around Grimmauld place in naught but her dressing gown and slippers. Not as though she hadn't done it before, but the fact that she didn't exactly live there anymore but a new spin on the situation. Especially since she was scuffling around Grimmauld place alone.

She supposed that Remus wasn't in the library, since if he was, he would have undoubtedly left as soon as Snape announced his takeover of the texts that lined the walls.

Where would he be at this time at night? It could be understood, somewhat, why Snape was here (he never slept well, she had unwillingly learned, and claimed to retain information and research better in the wee hours of the morning than at any other hour), but Remus not being home was strange.

Not caring to bid the old Potions master goodbye, Hermione appeared a few minutes later on her front step, her wandering thoughts of Remus lying her in a different part of the house than into which she had wanted to Apparate. Fishing her key out of her pocket, she immediately felt the hairs prick on the back of her neck. A touch to the knob confirmed it; the door was open and swung inward from the slight pressure of her fingers. The lock, which had been guarded against lock-picking spells, hadn't been broken, but it was unlocked, and she could have sworn that she had dead bolted it before she went to bed.

The standing hairs didn't smooth down as she cautiously stepped into her dark shop, eyes wide and pressing through the darkness, trying to discern a foreign shadow from the environment. Nothing seemed out of place; everything seemed how she had left it, but still…something didn't seem right.

She crossed the tile floor, her slippers creating a soft swishing sound as she crept through the darkness. She had drawn her wand from her waist tie, clinging it tightly in her fingers, eyes darting back and forth.

She decided to speak, and when she did, her voice was soft and broken.

"Hello?" she called softly, her tone hollow like the hoot of an owl's. "Is someone in here?"

Someone was coming down the stairs. She could hear each step creaking under the weight, its ancient wood groaning out a warning.

Her shoulders tensed and she stood erect, her breath catching in her throat. It wasn't Cincetti, was it? He surely wouldn't go so far as to break into her house? She wasn't quite sure; she didn't know him well enough to pass that judgment.

"I've used the Unforgivables before," she lied shakily, her voice thin as parchment. "And I'm not afraid to use them again."

"What are you talking about?" a voice asked from the stairway as Remus Lupin's face appeared in the dim light, the outlines of his features just visible in the darkness. "Hermione, you're a horrible liar."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, dropping her wand arm slightly, but only slightly.

"I was looking for you. You told me when you moved here that if I didn't hear from you for a couple of days, I should come and check on you and make sure that you hadn't been half-eaten by wild dogs."

"I was _joking_," she said firmly, finally dropping her arm all the way and tucking her wand huffily in her dressing gown waistband.

"You gave me a key." His gray eyes sparkled in amusement, dim twinkles in the blackness.

"For emergencies!" she protested. "What provoked you to come at this ungodly time of night?"

"Perhaps the same thing that provoked you to go to my house at this ungodly time of night?" he posed, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. "At least, that's what I'm assuming. I know that you weren't here until only a moment ago. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong."

"I needed to talk to you."

"Well." He shrugged half-heartedly. "Here I am."

"Not here."

"Why not here?"

"You shouldn't be here," she answered, moving past him and beginning the ascent to her room. "People find out that there was a werewolf in these parts and they'll be here with pitchforks before you can say "Lady of the Lake". They can probably smell you already."

"I'll be fine," he assured her, his feet clumping loudly, too loudly, on the stairs as he climbed them behind her. Hermione didn't wait for him but moved directly to her armchair, flopping into it in front of the fireplace. He had already started a fire, as if he knew that she was going to return. The nerve.

He stood before her, lacking a place to sit, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes. He looked less shabby than usual. His robes were, if not new, certainly an improvement over his old, patched-up rags. His hair was neatly trimmed and late-night stubble painted a dark shadow around his mouth. He raised an eyebrow and turned a hand toward her, beckoning her to talk. "What did you want to talk about, Hermione?"

She stuck him with an annoyed glance, but his gaze was unrelenting and sincere. Sighing, she Accio'd a crate from the corner and motioned him to sit. He drew it closer to her chair and followed the instructions, resting his chin in his palm and fixing her with a piercing stare.

"I'm frustrated," she admitted at last, balling her fists on her knees and trying to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

"I gathered that much," he retorted.

"You need to stop being around Snape so much."

"It's not really my choice." He smirked. "He shows up uninvited too often."

"You could turn him away." The skeptical look on his face bade her to add, "Though of course, you're too nice to do that."

"Did something else happen?" he asked. "You didn't receive any death threats, did you?"

"Not yet," she answered, studying the fly that was rubbing its legs on her mantle with unmatched intensity. "Though I'm counting the days."

Remus followed her gaze to the fly, the smirk still plastered on his face. "I remember this place well."

Hermione started. "You remember it?"

He turned back to her, mouth twisted in an odd, amused expression that almost seemed an embodiment of bitterness. "I used to live here," he answered. When I was young. Before I was a werewolf, and a bit after I had been bitten."

"You…" Hermione started. With mouth moving and no words coming out, she attempted to start over. "But…wait. What? What do you mean you used to live here?"

"Precisely what I said, Hermione. My parents and I used to live here. My father was a carpenter and sold his work downstairs. My mum wove blankets and knit sweaters and reserved a part of the shop to sell her own items." He turned and pointed to a door behind him, a door that lead to a small room with only one small window that now only served as a storage room for her chocolate supplies and Hogwarts souvenirs. "That," he added, "was my room."

"But…how…"

"Hence the term 'used to live here'. We left after we couldn't keep my lycanthropy a secret anymore. A surprisingly short amount of time, my parents found. They came very close to running us out of town…" He trailed off, jerking his head back to fix her with another one of his heart-piercing gazes, his eyes panes of rain-soaked glass. "I guess I should thank them. If I hadn't left, never would have gone to Hogwarts. Never would have met Sirius and James…" He smiled sadly, fondly. "Harry, Ron, you."

Hermione didn't know what to say. Her own problems seemed to have shrunk greatly now, just a shade of gray in comparison to this man's own troubles.

"Don't let them get the best of you, Hermione," he commanded, the crate squealing noisily as he scooted forward, taking her hand into his large, rough one. She could feel the scars that marred his fingers and palm. "You're stronger than that."

He was still smiling, the fondness remaining, the look in his eyes far away and roaming aimlessly across the open planes of her face.

Suddenly, a loud, rapid knock on the glass downstairs caused Remus to jerk his hand away.

"I should go," he said hurriedly, and before Hermione could protest, he had vanished with an ear-splitting crack.

Grumbling to herself and pulling her bathrobe tighter around her figure, she stumbled down the stairs and to the front door, jerking it open and finding that no one was there.

Then she heard a sniffle, a little gasp of sullen air, and looked down to see an elf, wringing a sock in its hands, its eyes glazed over by tears.

"This is Mudblood's fault," the elf muttered, the sock twisting in his grasp, the seam pulling loose in a surprisingly strong grasp. "Let Bern in."

Hermione pushed her hair back from her head and let out a frustrated sigh. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The phrase "half-eaten by wild dogs" is loosely adapted from Bridget Jones's Diary. 

Thanks to: amarisrl (I try, but I never get time to write, anymore), Kailin, Akasha Ravensong (Yup, the recipes are tailored to the chapter so they fit the content. The comments in the recipes (who the chocolate is meant for) are my own), athene, Rane2920072 (better? Never!), Fou Fou (yes, it is quite a change. It's more similar to my original works than my typical fanfiction), BaskervilleBeauty, M'cha Araem, TrinityDD, Samilia, Dracula5555 (I don't know, it might be good. I think I've had some, before), rainbow fuzzlez, wackoramaco87 (thanks, I need it), s.s.harry (can't go wrong with chocolate), Lucidshard, Rylee Smith (She's...an odd one), Dragon Blade5, CrAzYsHoRtChIcK (Yes, it is), Squishy K (thank you for your comments! If you're interested in reading more, I recommend checking out Wolfsbane, a Remus Lupin archive, which houses some quality Remus fanfiction, including some Remus/Hermione), Moon-n-Universe-Goddess (thank you for letting me by an exception :)), Saiya-jin girl, Saiya-jin girl, Saiya-jin girl, cjones1fan (Thank you! That means a lot to me), Zephyre, angryteabag, and apple-frreak (Mmm...let's add more Remus).

Thanks for all your reviews.


	6. Chocolate Peanut Butter Layer Brownies

Chapter Five

_Chocolate Peanut Butter Layer Brownies_

_2 oz. unsweetened chocolate, chopped  
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened  
1-1/4 cups sugar  
3 eggs  
1 tsp. vanilla  
2/3 cup flour  
1/2 tsp. baking powder  
1/2 tsp. salt   
1/2 cup chunky peanut butter  
3 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped fine_

_Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 9-inch square baking pan, knocking out excess flour. In a double boiler, melt unsweetened chocolate, stirring until smooth. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature. In a large bowl with an electric mixer, beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add vanilla. In a small bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and salt; beat into butter mixture just until blended. Divide batter between 2 bowls. Whisk peanut butter into batter in 1 bowl. Whisk melted chocolate into batter in another bowl; add chopped bittersweet or chips. Spread peanut butter batter evenly in the pan. Drop chocolate batter by large spoonfuls onto peanut butter batter and spread carefully to form an even layer. Bake brownies in middle of oven for 35 to 40 minutes or until a tester comes out with crumbs attached. Cool brownies completely in pan on a wire rack. _

_A perfect comfort food._

§

Twenty minutes later, the elf was still clutching the sock in his grasp, refusing to let go, as he wandered the shop with watery eyes. Hermione sat at her counter, tapping a quill on the tile, waiting for the thing to start talking. After shouting something akin to "Muggles will damn us all," he had stopped speaking entirely and instead taken to carefully studying all of her displays with a concentration that made her uneasy.

She didn't have a very good history with elves, which made this situation even more uncomfortable. After her self-lead campaign in which she tried to free them from slavery, they had revolted against her and stopped allowing her meals. Her elf-induced starvation lasted for almost a week (she had survived only from taking rations from Harry and Ron's plates and delving into her Honeydukes stash), only stopping, she believed, because Professor McGonagall was getting annoyed. Even afterward, her sheets tended to suddenly disappear in the middle of the night. Oh, how she wished that Remus had stayed.

"What did I do?" Hermione asked mildly, punctuating her words with a tap of the quill, breaking apart her hollow tone.

"Miss was absent," Bern mumbled, poking his finger into one of the chocolate bars, sniffing it hesitantly, and moving onto the next shelf. His back was to her and she could see several thin, silvery hairs glowing in the pale moonlight. "Mistress wanted chocolate and Miss failed Bern."

"I was only gone for about twenty minutes," Hermione replied, exasperated. "And that was after hours."

"Mistress does not care at what time of night Bern is to get chocolate. Bern did not realize that the cupboards had none until Bern looked into them and found that they were empty. Bern came to shop with expectations that Miss would be here, but she wasn't."

"You were thrown the sock because you couldn't find chocolate in twenty minutes?"

The elf shuddered visibly, his hunched shoulders lurching. "Miss does not know Mistress. When Mistress is on moon cycle, she can get very angry with Bern."

Hermione understood that, somewhat, but it still didn't seem a very good reason to get rid of the elf. The woman must have had House Elves coming out of holes in the ground, and poor Bern was just the unfortunate one chosen for the most mundane tasks, like buying chocolate. She probably should have chosen one whose moral values concerning purchasing weren't so…questionable.

"What am I supposed to do?" Hermione asked, trying very hard to keep her tone from sounding monotonous. She was ready to fall asleep right at the cash register. "You can't consider it my fault that you were let go."

The elf turned around slowly; she could hear its joints creaking as its bulging eyes came into view, the whites glowing an eerie blue. "Bern wants a job."

Hermione couldn't push away the sneer that came to her face. "You want a job. With me."

"Yes."

"What if your mistress wants you back?"

The elf sighed miserably. "Mistress won't."

Hermione squinted at the creature, her upper lip curling slightly into an obvious sign of unpleasantness that wasn't lost on the House Elf. The resolute expression on his face was shattered; his ears fell, and instead of looking pushy and controlling as he had before, he just looked pathetic. Which, Hermione thought, didn't exactly help her cause.

She released an exasperated sigh that threatened to border on a bit of a whimper.

"It's getting late."

"There must be a cupboard that Bern can sleep in during the night. Will Mudblood lead me to one?"

"If you stop calling me 'Mudblood,'" Hermione mumbled, turning and shuffling through the shop toward the kitchen, suddenly feeling very, very tired. She heard the door shut with a tinkle of the bell and heard the elf's slapping footsteps behind her.

"I'm not offering you a job," she said as she led Bern through the kitchen and toward a broom cupboard that stood adjacent to the stove. It creaked open in woody protest and Bern appeared at her side, barely reaching past her knees, his bat-like ears grazing her thigh as he looked tentatively inside the musty space. "I'll have to talk to you about that when I'm capable of making good decisions. I'll probably regret offering you a place to stay when I wake up."

"It will do for Bern," he said, a tone of resentment muddling his voice. "Woman should leave now."

Baby steps, baby steps…

"Right," Hermione flatly replied. "Don't touch anything unless I tell you to, all right?"

The elf nodded gravely before climbing inside and slamming the cupboard door shut with a bang to fill the night with mutters and foul curses upon all of mankind.

§

Hermione didn't see Bern when she awoke the next morning, but pressing her ear to the door revealed that the House Elf was asleep, snoring loudly. When he did awake, she assigned him a mundane task of gathering flowers out in the chilly September morning. She made sure they were reasonably difficult to find so that he wouldn't be back for a while. It worked, though Bern wasn't thrilled with seeing that the product of his hard work was only to be used as centerpiece on Hermione's kitchen table, shoved into a vase half-filled with dirty water. A threat of laundry kept him quiet for most of the day.

The shop was empty, as per usual, and Hermione spent the day until noon meticulously cleaning every nook and cranny of the store. There was truly nothing to be done.

That was, until a sandy-haired boy with large, blue, curiosity-filled eyes entered her shop, stiff with hesitation. He must have been sixteen or seventeen, tall and lean, and glanced out the window nervously before shutting the door with as much care as he could muster, making sure the bell didn't make a sound.

Hermione hesitantly smiled, climbing to her feet behind the counter.

"Hello," she said. "May I help you find anything?"

The boy stared at her, unblinking, and shook his head. "Not right now. I'm just looking."

"All right." Hermione sighed, unable to hold it back. "Don't hesitate to ask for help."

He nodded in shallow agreement and turned to look at the nearest display – the chocolate seashells – and after a few minutes moved lingeringly on to the next one. The orange chocolate slices, the various fruit flavors shaped into berries, animals, and geometric shapes. Next, on to the white chocolate and the tin boxes of almond and peppermint bark. He eyed them all, drinking in every excruciating detail. Hermione was immediately curious. He didn't seem like the type of boy who would be this interested in chocolate. But she held her tongue, afraid that, if she spoke, he would dart like a frightened deer and never come back.

Hermione was so involved in watching him that she didn't hear the tinkle of the bell nor see Helen until she was standing right in front of her, thick eyebrows raised, saying, "Miss Granger?"

"Oh," Hermione said, snapping out of her reverie. "Hello, Helen."

"Annette," she corrected. "My name's Annette."

"Right," Hermione replied unapologetically. "Sorry. Can I help you with anything?"

A small, odd quirk played the corner of the girl's lips, and her eyes rolled back toward the boy on the opposite side of the room. The rustle of cellophane rudely filled the silence as he held the packages up to examine their labels.

"No," she answered, her voice breathy and suddenly deeper than it had been a few moments before. "I think I can handle this on my own."

Hermione watched in amazement as Annette suddenly transformed from an awkward, plain youth into an awkward, plain vixen. Or, at least, she tried. She walked, arms on her hips, swiveling with confidence, directly toward the boy and stood beside him, so close that he could probably feel her breath on the back of his neck.

"Hello, Henry," she said smoothly, but so loudly that it made Hermione's ears ring. The boy visibly flinched, but Annette didn't seem to notice.

Hesitantly, as though he might know what he was getting himself into, the boy turned his head to the side. "Oh. Hi, Annette."

Annette broke into a smile that could almost be considered feral. "What are you doing here?"

He was hesitant to reply. His fingers restlessly tapped the cellophane before saying, "Escaping from my mother."

"Chores?" Annette posed mildly with an obvious flutter of her eyelashes.

"Worse," he answered, a grim expression darkening his fair face. "She wants me to go to dinner with her at the Mayor's house." His finger reached to tug at his collar, as if had already been crammed into the stuffy suit. "I reckon she won't find me here."

"You're welcome to have a seat," Hermione cut in, pretending that she didn't notice the perturbed look that Annette shot at her under her muddy fringe. "And some hot chocolate, if you like."

The boy gave Hermione a long, calculating look that almost made her squirm. His eyes were an almost unearthly shade of blue and peaked out from under a long fringe of eyelashes. No wonder Annette fancied him. If Hermione were their age, she'd probably be doing the same thing. If not doing it, then at least sitting there and imagining that she was doing it.

"I don't have any money," he answered shortly.

"My treat," Hermione heard herself say. She didn't remember having planned on saying that. "It being your first time here and all."

She could almost see the duel going on in the boy's head, the flashes of multi-colored light flashing back and forth between his eyes. His smile was slow, hesitant, but sincere.

"All right."

His hot chocolate was flavored with orange and raspberry, woven with a hint of vanilla cream, just the way he liked it. Annette bought herself a cup of mint hot chocolate and sat next to him, sipping slowly, making sure that she always had more in his cup than he did. Obviously, she wanted an excuse to stay as long as possible.

It had grown quiet, the only sounds the tick of the clock, tinks and clicks of the silver spoons against porcelain mugs, and the stifled sighs that Annette confided to her hot chocolate.

After Hermione had jotted down an idea for a new spice for her hot chocolate, she put down her quill and broke the silence.

"You're mum's friends with the mayor?" she asked breathily, her voice too desperate for casual conversation.

"Sort of," he said to his mug, swirling the remains of his drink. "He helps us out a lot. Got us established when we moved here. Gave my mum her job, too."

"Do you like him?"

He shrugged. "I don't really have to, it's not like they're dating or anything." Tink, tink. Annette shot Hermione a meaningful look over her hot chocolate. "He's okay, I suppose."

"Dinners bore you out of your mind, don't they?"

He finally glanced up at her, allowing her a bit of a smile. Annette looked decidedly disgruntled.

"Yes, they're mind-numbing."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Hermione's lips. "Not if you're with your friends."

He shrugged again, wearily examining his concave reflection in the silver spoon and tapping the stem with his finger, dislodging a bead of hot chocolate and watching it slide down the delicate weave of metal. "I don't really get the opportunity to make many. Don't have the chance to eat dinner with them, either. It's just my mum and me."

Hermione cast an uneasy glance at the back wall. "Oh."

An uncomfortable silence ensued while Henry stared into the remainders of his hot chocolate and Annette's hand crept slowly toward his.

Before Annette could do anything that would embarrass the both of them, and potentially chase away a potential customer, Hermione whipped around and turned on the Wizarding Wireless, listening painfully as the Weird Sisters' latest (their most recent albums had deviated far from their usual, pleasing style and had ventured into the ear-splittingly bizarre). She switched it immediately to a station that was apparently playing the entire score of the Nutcracker – each instrument played only by a House Elf that hadn't been commanded to play beautifully. Another turn of the dial brought only a talk show that was most likely produced by Luna Lovegood's father. Hermione sighed in resignation. At least it was something to fill the silence.

"So, Henry, do you attend school?" Hermione asked, trying to ignore the roll of Annette's eyes as the wizard on the radio began to talk about the mating habits of rare, seven-toed bloglomerns.

"No," he answered, rubbing his burnt tongue across the tips of his teeth. "My mum teaches me."

"That must not be very satisfying. I remember when _I_ was at Hogwarts…" Hermione trailed off, remembering that she probably shouldn't shift into a tirade, living as an example of what excellent schooling can do for one's career. Owning a chocolate shop did not pay great testament to one's Arithmancy skills. "Well," she said a beat later, "at least you're not privy to Divination."

"That was Mum's favorite subject."

"Oh." Poor boy. "I'm sorry."

"S'all right. Listen, I should go. It's probably safe for me to go home now. She's probably already left for dinner."

Annette looked as though he had just broken a date with her and then proceeded to smudge chocolate sauce all over her favorite dress. She probably though that the design was pretty and smelled like flowers. "Must you?

Henry shrugged, staring down into his now empty cup. "I have some reading to do. It'd probably be a better excuse than spending the night at the chocolate shop." He paused. "No offense, of course," he added quickly.

"None taken," Hermione replied with a faint smile. "I'd rather be in bed with a book, myself. Thank you for stopping by, Henry. It was nice to meet you."

"Yeah, thanks for the chocolate." He turned toward the door and added a quick, general 'bye' before heading out the door so quickly it looked as though he had Apparated.

"His mum's a control freak," Annette said as soon as he left, leaving no time for a breath after Henry had stepped through the door.

"Annette…" Hermione warned.

"It's true. I heard he has to have his underwear checked to make sure it's clean before leaving the house."

"You heard."

Annette shrugged. "Could I get some more chocolate?"

Hermione begrudgingly took the cup and refilled it, frowning as the swirls of peppermint steam drifted through the air and spiraled to her nostrils. She pushed it back toward the free-loading girl and lifted a solitary eyebrow.

Annette continued without any coaxing, apparently able to feel Hermione's curiosity though politeness kept her from saying anything. She took a sip of her chocolate and said, "His dad was a Muggle, you know."

Hermione almost choked on her own drink. "What?"

"Dad was a Muggle. No one really knows it, though. My dad's on the council and I heard he and my mum talking about it."

"So he's half-blood."

"Yeah, and his mum's not too happy about it, either. 'Course, neither is the mayor."

"But his mum works for the mayor," Hermione said, more to herself than Annette, spinning the thought in her brain. Was that what Hermione had to do to keep from being heckled to death? Throw herself at the mercy of Cincetti, ignore her heritage, and pretend that everything was quite all right and she had never known a Muggle, touched a Muggle, or been one? Or would she just have to shag him? She snorted into her cup.

"How many people know this?"

"A few," Annette answered, shrugging. "It's a conspiracy."

Conspiracy was not a word that Hermione commonly allowed into her daily language, any anyone who used the word...well...she didn't tend to take them seriously. However, she couldn't help but think that Annette just might be right.

§

_Dear Remus, _

_You know I would love so much to blame you for this, but I suppose the responsibility rests soley on me. The chocolate shop has become a soup kitchen. Ive hardly sold athing since I opened and keap giving away things to try and gain freinds. Needless to say, its not woorking. _

_You know you should come over for som of this champagne. Rather good. I don't know if there'll me buch left by the time you get here, though. _

_But its really making me thinks. Especially when it comes to listing my failures. Which are as following: _

_1. Am bloody fat. Cant even fit into old school uniform. _

_2. Cant sell a bloody piece of chocolate. _

_3. Cant have one bloody relationship. First the thing with Viktor and his stupid quiiditch and his stupid celebrity thing, then Ron. Idiots, the lot of them. Have random people, if not afraid to talk to be mecause am Muggleborn, ask me if I'm married and shuddered when I say am not. Harry's married, Ron and Luna are practically married, and am alone. With a stupid bloody cat who's unaccountable as Ron was. _

_4. Have to get drunk before can express my feelings. _

_That is all. Will write later. _

_Yours,  
Hermiome_

§

Hermione woke to a splitting headache and an eager tapping at the window. Groaning, she tossed the sheets aside and plodded over to let in a familiar, tawny barn owl, an envelope tied to its foot. Its wings grazed Hermione's shoulders as it soared past her and landed on the bedpost, watching her with lamp-like eyes and a clicking beak.

It nipped Hermione's finger affectionately as she reached down to untie its burden and give a sleepy ruffle to its feathers, only managing to inadvertently knock it off of the bed knob.

"Sorry," she muttered, finally able to grab the letter. Ignoring the address on the front (who else would it be to, really?), she tore the envelope open.

_See you at noon._

Hermione swore. The last thing she needed in accompaniment to a tough night and a hangover was a visit from someone that the entire neighborhood was likely to both recognize and hate. She considered writing him back and explaining that everything was going well, and make up some pathetic lie about how she'd sent him the wrong letter by mistake, but a quick glance at the clock revealed that he was due to arrive in a matter of minutes and that she had long overslept.

The owl clicked its beak impatiently at her as she stared, dumbfounded and lacking any sort of motivation to begin her workday, at the floor.

Remus had an odd method of naming his pets. Owls in the Wizarding World were usually given mythological names or something odd and of great importance. The Weasleys had Hermes (who still refused to die), Percy had Errol, Harry had Hedwig, and Remus, well, Remus had Brian. He had informed Hermione that he thought he would be original and name all of his pets common, Muggle names. He thought it was funny. Hermione just thought it was weird.

Nonetheless, Brian followed Hermione downstairs, sweeping over her head and landing above the locked door. Perhaps she just wouldn't open today. She doubted that it would be worth it if she did.

Still in her dressing gown, hair more of a mess than usual and her mascara smeared across her face, she started to break apart a chocolate seashell as an offering to the hungry owl when she heard a gentle knock at the door.

For being gentle, it was still too loud, and the face waiting outside wasn't much more welcome.

"Hi, Remus," she mumbled as she unlocked the door and turned away, raising her arm to the doorframe to see that Brian had left its post and flown to one of the shelves nearest his owner. Not eager to chase him, Hermione tossed the chocolate crumbs in his direction and the owl began to shamelessly consume them.

"How are you feeling?" he murmured oh-so-mercifully. At least he had the common sense to speak softly.

"What are you doing here?"

He allowed Hermione an irritating smile. "I came to see if you had any champagne left."

"Not a drop."

"I thought as much." He stuck his hands in his pockets, gazing around the shop with his still, grey eyes. "This place looks quite lovely by day."

"What, not by night?"

"To be honest, no. Rather frightening, actually." His gaze fell back to her and he gave her another soft smile. "Speaking of frightening, why don't you go take a shower and relax for a while? I can run things down here."

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Really, I can do it. I like to think that I'm capable."

"I'm sure you are, Remus," Hermione sighed, swiping a hand across her tired eyes. "But I'd rather not take the chance. I have a house elf, anyway. He can take care of things. Let's just go upstairs."

Hermione had no idea how long Remus had been longing for her to say those words, but not exactly in this context. And he preferred for her to have no idea, especially if all of his meetings with her would include her in a fluffy pink dressing gown and being slightly hung over.

But he obeyed and waited patiently in the armchair as she showered, leaving the door open and the curtains drawn so they could speak as she lathered (Remus had to close his eyes and push out all images).

"Really, Remus," Hermione said, her voice, though brighter than it had been a few minutes before, still being drowned out by the pounding shower water. "It's nice of you to come and try to help and all, but I'm fine. You don't have to give up your day because of me."

He paused and ran his tongue across his teeth; springs groaned as he shifted his weight in the chair. "Actually, I have to admit that I came for purely selfish reasons."

Hermione paused and when she spoke, her voice sounded breathless and slightly uneasy. "What do you mean?"

"My house is being fumigated. Violet trailed in a bunch of poisonous pests, and I have a control team hosing down Grimmauld Place as we speak. Unfortunately, the stuff's rancid...I'll have to stay out for at least a few weeks. And since you're Violet-free, and, if your last letter is any indication, lonely, and since you have a very comfortable armchair, I thought it might be all right if I...stayed with you."

There was a loud _thunk_ and a dirty word as Hermione dropped her soap.

Remus waited, but she didn't answer his request.

"Can you go look for Crookshanks?" she commanded instead. The nozzle squeaked as she turned off the water. "I haven't seen him for days, and I'm getting worried. And please make sure the house elf isn't making trouble. He's not necessarily trustworthy."

"But-" Remus began to protest.

Her reply was curt. "Later."

Sighing in resignation, he trampled down the stairs to carry out his assigned duties.

In the bathroom, Hermione leaned against the cool shower wall, holding a hand to her throbbing forehead and wondering about Remus, about business, and how the two could ever peacefully coincide.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was nearly a year and a half in the making. Was it worth it? Probably not. But it is continuing, and I'll make it one of my resolutions to finish this fic before 2007. Thanks for your patience. 


	7. Peach Jellies

Chapter Six

Peach Jellies

Salad oil  
2 pounds unsweetened sliced peaches  
3 3/4 cups sugar  
2 tablespoons unflavored gelatin  
2 teaspoons grated lemon peel  
1 tablespoon lemon juice

_Oil an 8- or 9-inch square metal pan. In a 6- to 8-qrt pan, combine peaches and 1/3c. water. Bring to a boil over high heat, stirring. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until fruit mashes easily, 10 to 12 mins. Whirl fruit mixture in a blender or food processor, a portion at a time, until smoothly pureed. Return to pan. In a bowl, mix 3-1/2c. sugar with the gelatin. Add to fruit mixture. Bring to a boil over high heat, stirring often. Stir and boil 5 mins. Reduce heat to medium and stir often until mixture is thick enough to leave a trail when the spoon is drawn across the pan bottom and juices in the trail are just beginning to turn a darker gold, 25 to 35 mins. At once, remove from heat. Stir lemon peel and lemon juice into peach mixture. Scrape mixture into the oiled 8- or 9-inch square pan. Let candy dry, uncovered, for 16 to 24 hours; it should feel firm and not sticky when touched. Coat a 10-inch square area with about 1/4 cup sugar. Invert pan to release candy onto sugar; using a long, sharp knife, dipped in sugar to prevent sticking, cut candy into 49 equal pieces. Coat each piece with sugar._

_Perfect if you're looking for something a little bit of a sweet surprise in your life._

§

When Remus returned, Hermione was just pulling her shirt over her mountain of bushy hair, still damp from her shower. Averting his eyes for a moment, he announced, "I couldn't find Crookshanks."

"Did you look outside?" she asked, sweeping her hair back and stretching out her tired face.

"No."

"Good."

"Your house elf is wiping down the kitchen, though."

"With cleaner, not blood?"

"I certainly hope so."

Hermione folded her arms across her front, seeming unsure of what to do with herself, contorting her body to look as though it might be pulled in all different directions. A dusty gust of wind blew through the open window, sweeping a chill throughout the room. Remus could do nothing but stand there, waiting for her to say something, or at least acknowledge that he actually existed.

"So about my question-"

"Look, Remus," she said, her mouth closing like a snap turtle's. Remus made a mental to note to never make requests when Hermione was hung over. "I'm sorry. I would enjoy your company, but this really isn't the best time. I'm trying to run a business, and I think people are just starting to get used to me. You said yourself to make sure that people weren't aware that I knew you, and with you staying here-"

"I'll make myself scarce," he promised. "No one has to see me. All I need is a place to sleep and eat, and even you can ignore me if you want to. I can sleep in the chair, read, and I'll make quite sure that I'm gone before it's even close to being a full moon. No one will know that I'm here."

Hermione's severe features softened, her shoulders sagging as she turned toward him. The sunlight caught the multitude of loose hairs that floated around her head, turning it into spun gold. She looked like she had just been tossed into a wind tunnel.

"I would never _ignore_-"

"I understand that you have a business to run," Remus interrupted, "and I promise I won't interfere. Though I will miss your company."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. She looked away at the flapping curtains for a moment before turning back, her face reddened and the whites of her eyes not quite a shade lighter. She molded her mouth into an expression that she must have adopted from McGonagall.

"Fine," she relented at last. "Go get your things."

§

Staring across the room, Remus could see the outline of Hermione in the dark. He had set up a cot on the main room (not being able to cram it into the storage space), and was beginning to think that staying with the Potters might have allowed him a better night's sleep, after all. At least Violet would have been asleep and padlocked in her room at this time at night and wouldn't bother him. However, the knowledge and the sight of Hermione just meters away kept all strains of sleep from his mind.

A clever witch, she was, but she was also a completely irritating one. The clock struck three. Hermione would have to get up in four hours, and she would, most likely, feel the need to wake him up, too. The ticking of the second hand was intrusively loud.

It reminded him of the dinner they had had the night before: all clicks and clangs and napkin rustling with very little time to talk between picking chicken from the bones and scraping the burnt bits from pieces of toast. She excelled at her candy-making, but when it came to the basic staples of life, she left much to be desired. Her chocolate was a hobby, something worthy of her effort and attention. Cooking for herself, and even for Remus, was just a chore, and something in which she put very little care. Her failed relationship with Ron had left a bitterness for all things Weasley-ish, including any form of housekeeping. She seemed to have stocked her pantry with boxes upon boxes of cold cereal...it wouldn't be a stretch to guess that was her meal, breakfast, lunch, or dinner, when she didn't feel the want to cook. Which was almost all the time.

A jingle of a bell suddenly broke through the ticking, accompanied by soft, rushing footsteps. Gleaming yellow eyes appeared at the top of the stairs, glowing inexplicably in the little light provided, and Crookshanks padded into the middle of the room, all bristle and fuzz. He peered at his owner, than at Remus, then back to Hermione. He took a few steps toward Hermione's bed but changed his mind mid-stride, instead turning back and bounding toward Remus.

Hermione sighed and shifted in her bed.

The cat leaped up onto Remus's cot and butted his squashed face against the werewolf's knee.

"Where you have been, old boy?" Remus whispered, scratching the half-kneazle between the ears. "Hunting? Or are you enjoying being bathed in attention by one of the fairer sex?"

Crookshanks collapsed underneath his hand as if he was boneless and began to purr contentedly.

"Well," Remus sighed, glancing toward the dark corner where Hermione lay. "At least one of us is."

§

Hermione cringed as she heard the tell-tale crash and roar of breaking glass in the kitchen, followed be the usual string of muttered cursing. Confident that Remus had the ability to fix anything he had ruined, she continued outlining the cupboards with black paint, hoping the inconsistencies given to the wood by hand would lend it a certain charm that it would lack with magic. She was so bad at it that she was about ready to give up, and Remus's inability to keep things unbroken wasn't exactly encouraging her.

"Are you all right?" Hermione called from the floor, dropping the paintbrush and wiping her hands on her pair of old blue jeans.

An indeterminate reply came from behind the double doors, followed by a clearer, "Erm, how attached are you to a pink vase etched with little flowers?"

Something knotted in Hermione's chest. "It was my great aunt's." She carefully added, "Why?"

There was another metallic crash and a very clear curse. Hermione stood and began to head for the kitchen, muttering to herself as she attempted to push her hair out of her face and failed. She pushed through the doors to see Remus crouching on the floor, prodding bits of glass with his wand.

"Oh, Remus," she sighed. She knew that it was damaged beyond repair; not even magic would be able to restore it to its original form. Remus tried, but it only lasted (in something shaped rather like a severed foot than a vase) ten seconds before shuddering and again shattering into pieces.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, face burning like a beacon. "I was just getting a bowl from the cupboard."

"It's all right," Hermione replied, trying to push the dark begrudging from her voice. She levitated the shards to the rubbish bin and dumped them there, watching as the broken bits of rose-colored glass gleamed in the yellowed light. "I didn't really like it much, anyway."

§

Hermione found an unusual amount of pleasure in escaping from the tiny town, if only for an afternoon. Remus had begged her to go shopping for real food and she had begrudgingly acquiesced, promising she would only be gone for an hour and that he wasn't to let anyone into the store. Knowing she wasn't going to get any service in town, and not trusting the supply of nutrients available in the poisoned community, she instead settled on a grocer in a town to the south.

She Apparated into a wooded area, jumped the ditch, and, finding she was a little farther away than she had planned, walked the kilometer to the store. Once there, she found herself taking much more enjoyment in it than she had planned on, and by the end of it, found that she had spent the equivalent of two weeks' rent.

By the time she was fishing for her keys while juggling several bags of fresh groceries, she was positively glowing and prepared to greet Remus with a smile, perhaps even a hug, if she could get the bloody door open. It wasn't a problem, however, as it soon flung open on its own and there stood...Edyth.

Hermione promptly dropped her keys on the stones.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, ignoring the flustered look of the blonde woman.

Edyth pulled at her collar and pushed a wisp of thin hair away, refusing to meet Hermione's eyes. "I just stopped by. Good bye, Miss Granger."

Hermione watched her go, bags hanging limply from her arms, and Edyth had long disappeared before Hermione realized that she was still standing outside in the cold, the door ajar in front of her, gleaming dimly in the gray daylight.

"Did you buy anything good? I have a strange craving for Mont Chevre."

"Got it." Hermione replied, staring at the tiles on the floor as she dumped the groceries on the countertop. She squinted at the pattern, furrowing her brows, and finally gathered enough courage and mustered enough anger to meet his eyes. They gazed demurely at her: wide, innocent, as if some woman hadn't just walked out the door.

"Remus," she began as he found his cheese and began to pry open the plastic wrapping, "she knows you, you know."

"I'm aware of that, Hermione," he sniffed, pausing to tear off a bit of plastic with his teeth. "Don't worry, she won't tell anyone that I'm here."

"Remus, you should have seen the pamphlet she gave me when I arrived. It was complete rubbish."

"Trust me," he replied, so resolutely that it startled her. "She won't tell. You have my word on that. She even bought an éclair."

Hermione made an annoyed sound deep in her throat, gathered the groceries and the remains of the cheese, and carried it to the kitchen, where she shoved everything, sacks and all, into the refrigerator.

Her melodramatic attempt to get away didn't work, however, as Remus only followed her.

"Some things just aren't supposed to go in there, Hermione. There is a freezer, too. And we do seem to have a few cupboards on hand."

"I'm going to cook dinner tonight," she replied, gazing determinedly at the icebox, though really not knowing where to start. "I am going to cook dinner, and it is going to be delicious."

"And--"

"And you are _not_ going to help me."

§

Four hours later, something resembling an Italian meal had been assembled on plates and dropped onto the counter, where Hermione and Remus ate in a jarringly bar-like setting. Ale fresh from the tap would have made it complete. Perhaps someone passed out drunk on the floor, even. This wasn't quite what Hermione had had in mind.

"So the calzones exploded," Remus said, examining the remnants of the said dish as he held his fork up to the light. "I'm sure it still tastes fine."

Apparently not, as he tasted it and his mouth couldn't relax enough in order to form another word.

"You know," he continued once he had regained feeling in his tongue. "I really should have cooked tonight, seeing as you're doing me a favor by letting me stay with you."

"No...no. I wanted to do it."

"Even though being bad at something drives you crazy?"

"Oh, I know I'm a horrible cook. Okay? I know. If there's one good thing I've learned in the past few years, it's how to recognize my failures." She dropped her fork on her plate, glumly staring at the still-full surface. She'd eaten less than he had.

"I don't necessarily know if that's a good thing," he replied, braving a bite of ravioli, which she mercifully hadn't made from scratch and still tasted somewhat decent.

"At least I'm realistic now, instead of delusional." He took a sip from her wine glass, which she had already refilled and was once again almost empty. If Remus didn't start watching her more closely, she was going to quickly spiral into alcoholism. "Isn't it good, Remus, that you were able to recognize that your relationship with Tonks was a failure so you didn't keep fooling yourself?"

Remus didn't say a word, and Hermione, in her loosened state, thought this was permission to stick her foot even further in her mouth. "Even Tonks couldn't take it, couldn't get past the prejudice. You'd think, out of everyone, she would at least have some semblance of understand. But she just goes and falls for the next thing in pants and abandons you--"

"I let her go, Hermione. I knew I couldn't make her happy. Only Kingsley could."

"...abandons you, and leaves you all alone. Foolish girl. And then there's Ron..." She emptied the rest of her glass in one swallow. "And then there's Ron."

"Have you dated anyone since you broke up with him?" Remus asked with mild interest, pushing the crust of the exploded calzone around his plate.

"Not one."

"But you want to, obviously. I must believe that some truth came in that letter you wrote me...what? What are you looking at me like that for? Hermione, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Hermione stared back down at the table, fiddling with the corner of her napkin. "That's kind of a silly question."

"On the contrary, I think it's well-called for. You certainly don't _seem_ all right."

"It's just that...it's just that it's all so hopeless. He left me so embittered toward men. Toward everyone, really. I suppose it's not such a wonder why none of my friends talk to me anymore." She dropped her fork and pushed the plate aside, collapsing her heavy head in her arms and releasing a deep, rib-achingly large sigh. "I'm just an old jaded spinster."

"Perhaps," Remus replied, resting his hand on her exposed wrist, feeling the thrum of the artery there and the way it heated his palm. She made no response to his touch, hardly even any acknowledgement to his existence. Perhaps she was lost, after all. "Except for being old. And as for friends...you still have one right here, whether you like it or not. And he's still talking to you, Hermione."


End file.
